How to Court a Self-Proclaimed Heterosexual in Just 30 Days
by Kariza Elquen
Summary: Dave Strider gives us all a lesson in how to properly woo your stubbornly straight best friend. Characters and cover photo are not mine. Rated K for lack of violence, death, and/or sexual relations. Thirty short chapters of fluff.
1. Day 1 - Roses

"_Initiating Stage 1: Confusion,"_ you scrawl in lazy manuscript across the first page of your pocket notebook. This is sure to be an interesting procedure, since he is, after all, your best friend, and you will be taking copious notes. You screw up your eyes in an effort to make out the light graphite scratches on the page. Despite years of practice wearing your shades in altogether unnecessary circumstances, it never stopped being difficult. You fight the urge to remove them for a few moments. Although that is not for a different place or purpose, it is for another day.

You tuck your notebook and pencil back into your cargo shorts and, hands now free, retrieve the bouquet from its tenuous place clenched between your knees. Turning slowly toward the house, you take your first hesitant steps up the driveway. You've walked this pavement innumerous times, yet somehow, this morning, the action seems exponentially more monumental than the rest. Then again, why shouldn't it be?

Taking a sharp left onto the front walk, and then a quick right onto the steps, you move with ease, your lanky legs stretching out in front of you. Now standing on the front stoop, you lift a shaky finger to the doorbell. The only thought that prevents you from turning tail and abandoning the mission completely is, "It's now or never." And it's true. You've been planning this for months. Years, even. It would be a shame to back out now.

The pleasant ringing tones echo inside the house and reach your ears, muffled by the door. After a few agonizing moments, your shorter friend appears, grinning out at you from between the blinds. You shift the flowers behind your back. Another few agonizing seconds, and the knob shifts and turns, opening the door back toward him. He runs a hand through his messy, raven-black hair, which rustles familiarly as it rearranges itself. "Hey, Dave," he greets you, eyeing the something concealed behind you. "What's up?"

Deep breath in. Slow breath out. And then, in one swift motion, you bring the bouquet forward, and present him with a dozen red roses, perfectly bloomed. "I love you, John Egbert."

There is a moment of absolute silence. Your ears tune out the breeze, the birds, the leaves on the trees, all in an effort to hear his quiet, strained reply as he reaches out doubtfully and takes the bouquet from your grasp. He looks down at the blossoms, and then up at you. "Dave, we've…we've been over this. I'm not a homosexual."

"I know."

John stares at you, stunned, his piercing blue eyes scrutinizing you through his clear, rectangular frames. He clears his throat. "Well. I'm going to go…um, put these in a vase." You love the way he says vase. Not _vayse_, but _vaws_. With a soft A.

You nod slowly, and he disappears as the door's lock slides into place with a decisive click. Some would view this as failure. But you are Dave Strider, and you have twenty-nine more days to go. _"April 1__st__,"_ you record in your notebook. _"Day One out of Thirty."_


	2. Day 2 - Chocolate

In premeditated thought, you have predicted the course of John's emotions over the course of the month, and assigned each of the six five-day periods a stage. Currently, it is April 2nd, and Day Two of the first stage, Confusion. You wonder if you calculated correctly. You spent quite a long time fussing over this process, because it has transformed into not only a courtship, but a scientific study. Perhaps you will publish your results.

Mounting the front steps for the second day in a row, you lean forward slightly as you press your finger into the little circular button. You hear a surprised shout from inside the house, and chuckle. You'd made bets with Bro that he wouldn't have suspected you to return. When you get back to the apartment, Bro owes you five bucks.

The door opens cautiously, and John peeks out at you from behind the doorframe. "Hi, Dave," he says carefully, and you hand him the box of homemade gourmet chocolates that you labored over for hours yesterday afternoon.

"John Egbert, I love you."

He pauses, looking at the box curiously. "I'm still not a homosexual," he mutters after a moment.

"I know." John just stands stock-still, one arm remaining behind the door and resting on the knob inside of the house, and the other hanging loosely at his side. "Just take the box already," you groan after a sufficiently awkward pause. At your prompt, he reaches forward with his unoccupied hand and plucks it from your fingers as if handling an explosive.

"Thanks…I guess," he says, barely meeting your gaze, and closes the door quickly in your face. You hear a light thump inside of the house as he drops the box on the sofa, and then heavy footfalls as he dashes up the stairs. "Daaaaaad!" he calls adorably as you turn away and start back down the steps. "Dave keeps giving me things and I don't know what to dooooo!" You chuckle. All these years, you never bothered to let him know that his door wasn't soundproof.


	3. Day 3 - Memories

**Author's Note: Hi, everyone! As you might have guessed, I gave up on my one-shot brigade. I'm still available for requests (one-word prompts, even), but I'm going to be devoting my time to this multi-chapter shindig for a while. Enjoy! (And if you have any ideas for Dave's gifts to John, please let me know! I need, like, 25 more).**

You are especially proud of this project. It took lots of time, which is something of a commodity as a senior in high school. A few months ago, you had begun digging through some of your old photography things, and had found a bunch of well-preserved negatives from when you were younger and still really interested in photography. Many of these were snapshots of you and John from middle school – at the park, on the playground, in the café, and more. So you hit the dark room for the first time in ages and developed photo after photo until you had dozens of perfectly printed images.

In the end, you had purchased an old-fashioned scrapbook from the thrift store downtown that you and John used to love, dated and titled each piece, and slid them between the thin, plastic leaflets. Every single page displayed two photos.

Now, you hold in your hands the fruits of your labors, bound in a hardcover album. You are reminded of your hours of work and sigh inwardly at the thought. Crossing your fingers against the back cover as you forgo the sidewalk and tramp across the front lawn, you hope it was all worth it.

Today is Monday, so unlike the two week-end days preceding it, you had needed to time your arrival carefully. After school, you had raced home to dump your backpack in your room, grab the scrapbook, and make sure everything was in order. Then you had grabbed a chilly apple juice from the fridge and hit the road, pedaling your ancient red bicycle across the town at top speed. It was an antique old thing, that relic of a bicycle, paint chipped and peeling away, pedals too close to your body. You had long since outgrown it, and your lanky legs felt scrunched up against your body when you rode. But the drink holder for your apple juice had remained intact, and that was the important thing anyway.

The doorbell's hollow yet cheerful echo reverberates through the house, and your ears pick up on it more than usual due to the living room window that has been cracked to let in the refreshing spring air. Thirty seconds later, the door opens, and you and John go through the dialogue to a script that is becoming nothing short of a routine.

"John Egbert, I love you," you quote, same as the two days preceding it. And yet, you notice that your voice holds no less passion than the first time you uttered it.

"I'm not a homosexual," John intones warily as he takes the book from you.

"I know."

When the door closes, you sit on the stoop, flip open your notebook, and add to your record. You're not sure what to list the gift as. _"Scrapbook"_ or _"photographs"_ are both accurate and straightforward, but you know that pictures are more than that. They are the shadows of the past. They are the remnants of memories. They are proof that the old times we spent together live on.

In the end, you settle for a word, and scribble it down after the phrase, _"Day 3."_


	4. Day 4 - Sick Beats Yo

It's Tuesday afternoon, and you hold, balanced between your fingertips, another great work of art. It looks unassuming on the outside: a simple, silver CD with the words, _"Day 4 – Sick Beats Yo,"_ written in black Sharpie across the surface. But you have burned it with over fifty audio tracks, some of them raps, but most of them mash-ups, remixes, and turntable recordings. And you made every single one.

You are almost blown away; your genius is so stunning. These are the indeed the sickest of beats, the most deliriously ill biznasty. Like, damn. You just know John will love the CD. Eventually. Possibly ironically, but even so, at least as much as those terrible movies he obsesses over. Gog, you seriously hate those things, but you watch them anyway because it means hanging out with him.

John really is adorable when you watch those movies with him. He likes them completely and entirely, no irony involved whatsoever, which is cute in a geeky sort of way. His face tends to light up throughout the whole film, and when his favorite scenes come around, he'll poke you in the arm excitedly and point them out, eyes not leaving the screen. He also has a habit of pulling his knees to his chest and resting his feet on the couch in front of him, so his body is held in an upright fetal position for the most exciting or scary parts of the movies. Wrapping his arms around his legs and hugging them tightly, he'll rest his chin on the top of his kneecaps and watch, entranced. And you'll watch him, entranced, as the TV highlights his black hair with blues, reds, yellows, and greens.

When he answers the door today, his smile seems forced, mechanical. After blinking at you, silently, for a moment, he hitches the left corner of his mouth up, and then the right, as if remembering to order the muscles to smile at different time. The effect is robotic and lifeless, as if the sides of his smile were the arms of a marionette, being jerked up one at a time by the puppeteer.

You give him the disk, adding, "I love you, John Egbert," as you shove your hands into your pockets.

"I'm still not a homosexual," he mumbles, irritated slightly.

"I know." Pause. "Ya know, a thank-you might be in order, at some moment in time." But he seems unable to give you one. So you free your hands from their fabric prisons and throw them into the air. "Nevermind. Unnecessary anyway."

"Thanks," John mutters belatedly, and closes the door slowly, inches from your nose.


	5. Day 5 - Illustrations

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. Just wanted to add a disclaimer: what Dave is currently doing to John is considered harassment, and, if continued, stalking. In my story (as it is just that: a story), it is inevitably bound to work. But if you do this in the real world, you will never win the object of your affections, and you'll probably get a restraining order. And make someone's life that much more difficult. So don't do it. That said, thank you so much for all the heartwarming comments. They make me squee a lotta bit. Enjoy the extra-long chapter to ease the pains of your extra-long wait.**

You have fallen into a distinct pattern. When the final bell rings at school, you rush home, grab your newest creation, and bolt out the door, pedaling furiously Egbert-ward. Today is Wednesday, and the third time you have been through this sequence. As you snatch a black, leather-bound sketchbook from its place resting on your bed, you spin around at the sound of a cleared throat. Bro leans against the doorframe, casually inspecting the blade of one of his more shitty katanas.

Groaning, you try to push past him into the kitchen, but he is blocking the exit of your room. "Bro, I don't have time to strife right now. I have to _go_," you say firmly, trying to shove him out of the way. He simply braces a muscular arm against the opposite side of the frame and points with the sword toward your bed.

"Sit," he demands. "We need to talk." With resentment, you turn back and position yourself on the mattress, clutching the sketchbook to your chest. He sits down next to you, a welcome change. Usually when you have your "talks," he stands over you menacingly. "So, little bro," he begins, laying the katana across your pillow. "What's up with all this running about after school?"

You clench your teeth. "I have deliveries to make," you explain in a huff, looking away from him and inspecting the complex mechanisms of your turntables with feigned interest. "It's not important, and it's certainly none of your business." Bro's fingers dance over the handle of his katana before gripping it and raising it to your face, pressing the flat side of the blade against your cheek to turn your gaze back toward him.

"It's Egbert, isn't it?" he asks you, and from the tone of his voice, you would be fooling no one if you denied it. So you keep your mouth shut and say nothing. He shakes his head, chuckling, and looks at you skeptically. "Do you love him?"

You run the tip of your tongue along your teeth. You do not doubt the truth, only whether or not you should admit it to your brother. But he is boring holes in your skull from behind his ridiculously pointy shades, so you nod your head slowly. He seems satisfied, haughty, even. He places the sword back on the bed and crosses his arms.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I was in love?" he asks. You give him an exasperated look. Obviously he hasn't. He runs a hand through his excessively gelled hair and pauses for dramatic effect. You are about to get up and leave when he speaks again. "His name was Jake."

Hands still clenched around the cover of the sketchbook, you do a double-take. "He?"

Bro cracks his knuckles. "Don't interrupt when your bro is telling a story." You roll your eyes. "And yes, he. His name was Jake and he…was absolutely perfect in every way. And I thought I was in love with him."

You narrow your eyes at the taller blond. "_Were _you in love with him?" There is a long, deadly silence as you realize your mistake. Bro freezes, staring daggers into your skull. After a few strained moments, he lifts himself to his feet and takes his katana by the blade. It's shitty enough that it doesn't even make a cut. He turns and walks from the room. As he reaches the doorway, he pauses, and looks back over his shoulder at you.

"Yes," he says tersely and with resignation. "Go about your business," he adds offhandedly, before stepping into the hallway and clipping the tip of his shades on the doorframe. You hear a muffled, "shit," as he makes his way into the kitchen. Smiling down at the object in your hands, you stand, and rush out of the apartment to get your bicycle.

When you screech to a halt at the curb, you see the door opening out of the corner of your eye. John has been expecting you. Dismounting your bicycle is a clumsier process than usual with his sharp eyes scrutinizing your back. You approach the house awkwardly, not sure whether to attempt eye contact or not. Reaching the front step, you realize it would have been futile anyway, as he has redirected his attention to the tips of his sneakers.

You hold out the book toward him. He makes no move to take it, so you reach down with your left hand toward his right and grip it. His soft skin against yours is tantalizing, but you force yourself to pull his hand up, wrap his fingers around the book, and, excruciatingly, let go. Curious, he pulls back the cover to reveal the first page, with the words, "_John Egbert, I love you_," written in painstakingly neat cursive scrawled across the parchment. A turn of that page, accompanied by the sound of rustling paper, and you are looking at an upside-down version of a sketch of John at the park. "I'm not a homosexual," John whispers intermittently as he turns page after page, his cheeks growing redder and redder. Some of these drawings are of you and him together, and not all of them are entirely PG. You considered taking them out, but you felt it was somehow more authentic just to give him the whole, unabridged documentary of your affections.

After glancing at least once at everything, John closes the book with a hollow _whoosh_ of air, and holds it by the binding at his side. He raises his eyes to you. "Dave," he begins quietly. "I think it would be best if you didn't come by here anymore. For the time being, at least. Or, well, not like this. Every day. With…gifts." You start to protest, you try to say something back, but the words of your explanation catch in your throat. And before you can force them out, only the chipped paint of the front door is staring back at you.


	6. Day 6 - Poster

Your ears fill with the complaints of rusty gears as you screech to a halt at the edge of the curb. Planting the soles of your converse firmly on the pavement, you pause to catch your breath. You check to make sure that a certain poster canister is still nestled snugly in your messenger bag. It is, so you extract it, hang the bag's strap from the handlebar of your bike, and swing yourself off.

According to your calculations, since today is Day Six, you should be initiating Stage Two, Annoyance. So it is with hesitation that you make your way to the front porch and ring the doorbell.

For the first time in a while, it is Mr. Egbert who answers the front door. "Dave," he grunts, looking down at you in displeasure. You get the feeling that John has informed him in detail of the situation. "It's…nice to see you." He makes no move to offer to call his son.

"You too, sir," you smile forcibly. After a few moments, you add, "Is John home?" The man only nods and moves back into the house. A few strained minutes later, a boy dressed in blue replaces his father's form in the doorway. All is silent, except for the static-y sound of dry leaves rustling across the sidewalk.

"Hi, Dave," John says, and for a moment it's just like the old days, and you wonder why you ruined it with all this romance business in the first place. But then his eyes flick down to the object in your hands, and you hold it out to him. You don't say anything, as it seems somehow inappropriate regarding the situation to profess your love for him (for the sixth time in one week). And besides, you aren't really up to hearing him tell you that he's not a homosexual (again, for the sixth time in one week). So you leave both numbers at five and let him make the next move.

Quietly, his hands clamp around the cardboard container. Looking down and biting his lip, he mutters, "I thought I told you to stop doing this." Hesitantly, you reach forward, and tilt his head up at his chin. He doesn't move away, but he still refuses to look at you.

"I can't," you explain, before withdrawing your hand. He nods like he understands, even though he can't possibly. You take a few steps backwards as the door closes. Once it does, you retreat to a spot in the front yard from which you can see through his bedroom window. Watching him enter his room, you cringe as he flings the poster angrily at the wall. Then his head disappears from view as he collapses on the floor. You feel your heart do the same.


	7. Day 7 - Smuppet

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long breaks recently, guys! Finals are coming up and shit's going down. Please give me ideas for more gifts for Dave to give John, and also maybe a one-shot idea for me to pursue after or during this. As always, thanks! 3**

It's been exactly a week since you began this ridiculous charade, and you're starting to regret it deeply. John avoids you at school, opting instead to hang out with Jade and Rose and, most painfully, Vriska. It's as if he knows exactly how to best plunge a myriad of splinters into your heart. Like he just walks around with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and pulls back the string of his bow every time he passes you wordlessly in the hallway.

"Hm, how should I maim Dave today?" he laughs manically as he draws an arrow in your mind's eye. "Ah, ignoring him, yes, good!" _Zing! _"Let's see…spending an inordinate amount of time with Vriska!" _Zing!_

You're about sick of it.

You seriously consider giving up. Like, whoever can resist a messy-haired Dave Strider in dark red skinny jeans trying to woo them from their front porch must mean business. But another part of you hopes it's only a matter of time, so you persist.

After the final bell rings, you spot John packing up at his locker. He makes eye contact with you for approximately .5 seconds before slamming the metal door shut and disappearing into the crowd. _Zing!_ You cringe, and then sigh audibly as Rose approaches you from behind.

"You know, Dave, maybe you should just –" she begins as you wheel around.

"I know!" you practically shout over the after-school din. "I know. You think I don't?" Turning back around after a reflective pause, you catch a final glimpse of dark hair, just before it vanishes around the corner. You watch the students milling around for a bit, and by the time you look back for Rose, she and Kanaya are already heading down the hall in the other direction. Letting out another long puff of air, you retrieve your things from your locker, and prepare for the endless bike ride home.

Today, a small, blue smuppet waits patiently on your bed. Dumping your backpack on the carpet, you snatch it up and trek begrudgingly back out the front door. Mounting your bike and fitting your cargo carefully into the bag dangling from your handlebars, you take off.

Arriving at John's house has become a chore. The second you get off of your bike, the door opens, with an irate Egbert standing in the threshold. Before you even step foot on the front porch, he's yelling. "I thought I told you to stop it!" he complains loudly.

Eyes downcast, you thrust the puppet into his reluctant hands and turn tail muttering, "I love you, John Egbert," pointlessly under your breath. As if he could hear you. As if he would want to, even if he could.


	8. Day 8 - Aviators

You know he'll like it. Well, rather, you think he'll like it. You seem to know him less and less these days. You suppose that's to be expected. Occupational hazard. In this case, the occupation being…recklessly flirting with your lifelong best friend? And you guess that's where the metaphor falls apart.

They aren't authentic, like those brilliant ones he gave you lo those many years ago, and that you still wear, but they're in good condition. So it is with care that you tuck them into your pocket and make the daily trek to his house.

He isn't waiting for you today. You didn't really expect it, since you're not coming from school. You slept fitfully last night, and once you woke up, you didn't quite have the motivation to drag your sorry ass out of bed. Eventually your bro did it for you, and it is about one o' clock on Saturday afternoon as you arrive in front of the familiar white house. Your stomach growls in complaint. How could you have forgotten to eat anything before you left? You're not thinking straight these days.

The doorbell chimes a bit too loudly for your ears, which haven't heard so much as a word all day. After a few moments, you hear footsteps pounding loudly down the stairs, and the door swings open. John is still in his pajamas, his hair a mess and glasses missing from his face. You smirk from behind your shades. How cute.

"It's you," he says, not at all pleased. He squints at you. You're not used to seeing him without that smudged glass covering his eyes, and it makes your stomach do an acrobatic fucking pirouette. Off the handle, of course. "I thought maybe you'd given up. Or one week was the plan."

You slip a pair of aviators with deep blue frames from your pocket and slide them onto his bare face. His eyebrows knit together and he yanks them off. You cringe. "Careful," you warn him. "Those are nice ones." He sighs is resignation.

"Look," he articulates bluntly, flipping the sides of the glasses into the down position with his two pointer fingers. "How much longer is this going to go on?"

You jump backwards off the step. "That, my friend, is a secret." Giving him a little playful salute, you turn and stride back to your bike. When you pedal off, he's still in sight, leaning against the doorframe and inspecting the sunglasses with a grimace.


	9. Day 9 - Breakfast in Bed

The next morning you wake with the sun. Golden rays slant through the dusty windowpanes and cast a warm glow about your room as you stretch and throw back the covers. Normally, in your book, Sunday isn't a day to get much of anything done, besides for the last-minute homework rush at 11:00 PM. _But today will be different_, you think as you throw on a red tank top and jeans. _Today will be different_.

You're pretty sure what you're planning is an unprecedented level of creepy, but you figure John is annoyed enough as it is. Might as well go all out.

The kitchen is bright and spotless. Bro went on one of his rare cleaning sprees last night, polishing the place from top to bottom. You can hear him snoring in the next room over as you enter the pristine room, which shines from the sunlight reflecting off the glossy white tiles. The windows in the kitchen are big and clear. Overall, this room is quite to contrast to your own.

You set to work. This is by no means one of your many talents, but you try your best anyway. When you're done, the kitchen is a bit of a mess. You feel bad about that, for Bro's sake, so you try to tidy up a bit before you pack everything carefully into your backpack and step outside.

This April has been a nice one so far. Spring is well on its way, with colorful daffodils and geraniums blooming in the mulch along the sidewalks. You untether your bike from the metal arch near your apartment complex and mount it, cautious to keep your backpack from shifting from side to side as you pedal off. You feel the muscles in your calves work to pump the pedals, and the light breeze dusting against your face. Its days like these that keep you moving.

But in the end, the shitty old brakes on your bike fail, and you find yourself sailing past your destination before you have the chance to slow to a stop. When you are able to hop off of your bike, you walk it back half a block, grumbling discontentedly all the way. The doorbell echoes piercingly down the deserted street, and it is Mr. Egbert who comes to the door. He regards you with distaste.

"John is sleeping," he explains gruffly, attempting to seal the barrier between you and his house. You stick a sneaker in the doorway and wince when your foot is caught against the closing door.

"Could I come in, please?" The man stares down at you for a moment before ushering you inside, muttering under his breath.

You could find your way up to John's room blindfolded, even though it's been a while since you've been inside his house. After nimbly taking the stairs two at a time, you knock softly on his bedroom door and push it soundlessly open.

His room is the same as you remember it. Ghost bed sheets, desk against the right wall, posters plastered everywhere, ridiculous magician's chest fitted into a corner. You smile and get to work, sliding your backpack off of your shoulders and onto the floor with a light _thud_. John stirs in his sleep, rolling over and letting a barely audible sigh escape from between his lips.

He looks adorable.

Shaking your head, you remove a tray and a plate from your bag, and set them on the desk. You load the plate with still-warm pancakes from a plastic Tupperware container, and coat them with syrup from a squeeze bottle that you're lucky didn't leak all over the inside of your backpack. _And now, for the finishing touch_, you think as you withdraw an apple juice box and place it next to the plate on the tray with a flourish.

You leave the tray and your backpack on the desk and approach John's bed quietly. Sitting on the edge of it, you reach a hand forward and stroke his hair away from his face. You bite your lip in an effort not to lean down and kiss him awake. That would be weird. Divine, but weird.

And anyway, John's eyelids are already fluttering open. The moment he resisters your presence, he gives a yelp and scrambles for something on his bedside table. Without a warning, your eyes begin to sting in pain, and your let out a shout as you fall back onto the floor, coughing and sputtering. When the air clears, John is kneeling on the edge of his mattress, peering down at you.

"Smoke pellets," he offers apologetically, and then frowns. "Dave, I thought you were a burglar! How did you get in my house?"

"Front door," you grunt, pushing yourself up. He gives you a look. "Ugh, fine, your dad let me in." You stand, and turn to walk back to the desk, which fortunately had been spared from the blast radius of the smoke pellets. "Good-looking man," you add, picking up the tray. "I can see where you get it from." You consider giving him a wink upon turning around, but decide against it. He's already inspecting the contents of the tray suspiciously.

"What's that?" he asks as you return to him. You set down the tray on his now-vacant bedside table and perch on the edge of the bed. He swings his legs off and plants his feet on the carpet, so you are sitting side-by-side. It might be the closest you've been to him in nine days.

"Breakfast in bed," you say, gesturing for him to take the tray, which he does, setting it in his lap and eyeing the pancakes with disbelief. He lets out a puff of air and turns to you, looking you in the face with obvious difficulty.

"Dave," he begins. "You've really got to stop doing this. It's getting on my nerves, and it's just completely inappropriate. And I don't like it. Okay?" You ignore his pleas and tap the tray with one finger.

"Just eat the pancakes."

"There's no fork."

_Shit._


End file.
